Love in seventeen steps
by I'm Nova
Summary: I can't decide how the Johnlock began, so I will be putting here all my theories on " By what and in what manner Love conceded,/ That you should know your dubious desires" and yes, quoting Longfellow's translation of Dante is almost blasphemous applied to my work but I couldn't help myself. Not everything will be M, but I want not to worry about it.
1. Chapter 1

A.N. First attempt. I feel like CLAMP (the mangakas) now, because...nothing happens (if you've read anything from them, you understand me), but I promise I will earn the M in later one-shots. I just need to work up my nerve. This is just terribly OOC (turn away now while you still can). No other warnings, I think. Is it possible to class this as Angst/Humour and make sense?

I'm not sure if I should class this as 'betaed by Ennui Enigma' or as a joint venture...she's been _that _helpful. As always, any errors are mine!

Lovesick

I've been surprised many times by Holmes. Sometimes it feels like that is my default attitude whenever he is around. One lazy afternoon, his voice interrupted my reverie.

"Could I ask you your professional opinion, Watson?" he asked.

"Of course," I agreed, wondering.

"I've been showing...symptoms, and I can't see a reasonable cause," Holmes said sheepishly.

That surprised me, and much more, it worried me. To say Holmes disregarded his health would be the understatement of the century. He constantly protested my treatments. If he was unwell enough to take notice of his physical condition, why had I not noticed it first? I squashed a spike of self-loathing and prompted, "Do tell, Holmes."

"Nothing really serious, dear chap, but...very random symptoms…'bouts of tachycardia and moments of breathlessness in answer to totally inadequate, mostly visual, stimuli. Odd thoughts – deeply odd, and out of character – sometimes bordering on obsessive, and not the fruitful, need-to-solve-this compulsion. Not exactly bad thoughts or dark, mind you. Far from it. Just...unusual, and unjustified. Oh, and a wish – more of a need, really – for physical contact of any kind. Manageable but I thought it better to be exhaustive".

Holmes looked down and appeared slightly uncomfortable describing these problems of a more personal nature**,** then continued with a sigh. "All in all, I would suspect myself of using some kind of drug, but since I have not...I don't know. What do you think, Watson?"

It did sound like a weird affliction. Still, I had a feeling there was a much more simple explanation than what appeared on the surface. "Explain what kind of stimuli, please, Holmes," I requested, hoping for something to enlighten me. If this didn't work, I'd need to delve into his obsessive thought patterns to make sense of it, and frankly, I dreaded that prospect.

"Silly things, Watson, really. Like the way the sun plays with a person's hair and brings out shades I never noticed; or, the look in a particular pair of eyes. They all come from the same individual, at least until now," Holmes explained, strangely hesitant.

That's when it clicked, of course. I went over the list of symptoms in my head. Nothing was wrong; only unexpected. If I was lucky this was just the thing I needed so that my schoolboy crush on Holmes (a crush which had survived fifteen years and my own marriage) would finally disappear. I couldn't help but chuckle. "Holmes, you're not ill, nor have you consumed any kind of drug without realizing it. You're simply in love, my friend."

"But I've known this person for...some time already. And before, nothing of the sort..." he protested.

"Who is the hopeless romantic now?" I teased "It's not always love at first sight you know. It can be the girl next door. You perceive her as perfectly ordinary and plain. No personal beauty to distinguish her. Then suddenly you have a change of heart." Meanwhile, during this discourse, I was running through my internal mind-notes, trying to guess who might be worthy of such a feat.

"What should I do then?" my friend queried, sounding quite lost.

"My personal advice would be to make an honest woman of her. Ask her to marry you," I answered. _What was I supposed to say? I'm the voice of common sense, after all – or I try to be._

"I can't," Holmes countered.

"Why?" I inquired. _Had he fallen for a married woman? Was it Irene at long last_? If I ever received permission to divulge this factoid, the fans would have a field day! They'd believe the relationship dated way back, no matter what I said.

"I can't marry another man, now can I?" my friend...crush...love (_better stop deluding myself, it was too late to do anything anyway_) revealed.

"Oh!" I exhaled.

"You're disappointed," he remarked, tilting his head in my direction, his perceptive gaze reading my ambiguous reaction correctly.

"With myself only, Holmes," I replied. "I should have deduced this, or at least guessed it. You've never been too fond of the fairer sex after all." I hoped the omission (_not an outright lie_) would be overlooked. If I had realized this before, and been less of a coward...could I have even dreamed of romancing Sherlock Holmes?

"Really? Are you not upset that I am seemingly incapable of being normal even once in my life?" he asked, studying my face with an earnest expression.

"I've never expected normal from you, Holmes. After all, you warned me about your quirks right from the start," I reassured him, half-joking. He and Stamford had both warned me in truth. Not to mention it would have been exceedingly hypocritical. But, I still didn't have the heart to say that… yet.

"Not about my...preferences, I didn't say a word of it," Holmes pointed out softly.

"No, Holmes," I answered truthfully. _He had that much sense, at least. __'__I favour Greek love__'__ is not something you casually say to a stranger. _ "It is, however, much less hazardous than half of the other habits I've put up with," I acknowledged. At least no one was likely to be physically hurt.

"Then...what do I do?" he queried again.

"To begin with, you must be very careful. You could end up facing a judge if this man reports you, Holmes. Keep that in mind," I advised with a stern expression. I didn't want to discourage him from pursuing his love interest out of jealousy. (_That's what I tell myself anyway_). Our laws were indeed confusing, mixing up sin with crime. I was in my right to worry, wasn't I?

"He won't," Holmes stated, perfectly certain in his words. His obvious blind faith scared me.

"How can you be so sure? I understand your feelings, dear friend," I retorted, appeasing. (Holmes never liked to be doubted, and even less about this, of course). "I just don't want to see you destroyed because you've misjudged a man."

"He won't, really. He hasn't a mean bone in him," Holmes insisted, his lips curling in a secret half-smile. It tugged at my heartstrings and jealousy filled me – undeniable this time – bitter and burning.

"If you're so sure then, why don't you tell him?" I bit back, clearly irked.

"Just like that? Plainly? I thought wooing someone was a much more complex matter, Watson," he objected.

I loved him too much to lash out at him any longer. However, keeping this up was more than I could bear. "Why am I your love consultant, anyway?" I answered tiredly.

"Because you are knowledgeable on such matters and I don't know whom else to ask," Holmes replied, his voice taking a hesitant lilt – as if he wasn't sure it was acceptable but wished it were.

"I'm not an expert, Holmes. Not in the specific area you need me to be. If you brought him roses, for example, I reckon your beloved would react rather badly." I jested with half-mocking sarcasm. There had to be a limit to the self-harm one was expected to suffer. I simply couldn't guide Holmes through courting someone else.

"So you really don't know what I should do?" he repeated disconsolately.

"I'm sorry, old chap. I do know what _I_ should do, though," I retorted. It took me until now to acknowledge it, but now I couldn't avoid it any longer.

"You?" Holmes echoed, clearly taken aback. "You know what_ you_ should do?"

"I have to vacate these premises," I declared recklessly.

"But, why?" he protested - loudly.

"Holmes, even if you can't marry him, you'd certainly want to live with him? And no couple should be intruded upon on a daily basis like I inevitably would," I explained. It was true. The sheer fact of seeing him in a relationship would break me in a thousand pieces. This was too close to my heart, but I couldn't let him know.

"WhatifIalreadydo?" he blurted out, all in a breath.

"Holmes? What are you saying?" I asked. Had I heard him correctly? It was impossible. Of course I'd misheard him.

"I'm saying. What if I already live with him?" he repeated, clearly this time. "This is the wrong way to declare oneself, I know," he added, broodingly, when I was silent for a few seconds, shell-shocked.

"Sherlock... do you mean that you're in love with me?" I asked. I was so shaken I didn't even realize I had just used his Christian name.

"If your diagnosis is correct, I do," my beloved agreed. He did not say, 'yes,' flat out, though. Sherlock Holmes – loving _me – _was such an unbelievable possibility! A hundred more probable hypotheses flew instantly through my head.

I didn't mention any of my suspicions though. Instead, I asked incredulously, "And you were asking _me_ how to court me?"

"I wasn't supposed to ask you like such, was I?" he answered worriedly.

"People don't usually do that," I confirmed.

"But why? Surely you'd know best what you enjoy, right?" Holmes' logic, applied to love – if that's what it was – made for an awkward conversation!

"Holmes, I think the point is that you're supposed to instinctively know these things," I informed him.

"That's unfair!" Holmes complained – vehemently. "You can't expect me to make deductions when feelings are involved. They mess everything up!"

"Indeed they do," I assented softly.

"And you never answered, you know," he abruptly remarked, turning to me. An expectant expression was on his lean face, keen eyes searching for any clue I might provide.

"I didn't. Because, to be honest, I fear it's just another trick of yours – and I've been played with often enough," I retorted. This was my first hypothesis – or better said, the first batch of them, which had occurred to me. It surely made more sense than my suddenly becoming his charming love interest.

"Watson, I wouldn't deceive you," he objected, adding quickly, "without_ cause_" at my accusingly raised eyebrow. "I've only tricked you on a case – for the sake of the case – haven't I? You're too honest – too good – to fool a criminal, sadly. And you know I have no case going presently."

"Ok. So if it's not a lie for the sake of one of your investigations, then I'll have to trust that you wouldn't fake such an incredible thing out of boredom either?" I answered, still a bit suspicious.

"Naturally," Holmes agreed. (_So there went my second batch of hypotheses_). He had done some mad things out of ennui but researching 'symptoms' of love and declaring his feelings for me would not be added to this list.

"And you're serious...it's not...I don't know...an experiment? Perhaps Gladstone doesn't mind but I would mind very much being used as a guinea pig," I stated emphatically.

"What kind of experiment would entail this?" he shot back, curious.

"Do I ever comprehend your experiments?" I replied warily. _Perhaps he wanted to confirm his own suspicions of my feelings, if my behaviour had inadvertently clued him in to them__. It could be Holmes trying to understand love, trying to get himself into a relationship. It could be anything_. I said nothing.

He rose suddenly at my evasive words.

"Holmes?" I called, caught off guard.

"It's okay, old boy. I know how to take a cue, you know," he declared petulantly.

"What cue?" I echoed, because for the life of me, I couldn't say what cluesI could possibly be giving off other than utter confusion.

"Don't play with me, Watson," he snarled. "You're very blatantly not answering and trying to get me to admit I wasn't serious about...this. You're too kind to let anyone down. You hope I'm lying. Then it would take the sting out of your refusal. It's okay. I understand. Of course...I went about it all-wrong. If I'd known how to court you – perhaps... perhaps not? Probably not. Just, just.. don't go away," he choked out, eyes brilliant with surely-not-tears?

Before I managed to answer, he escaped to his room. For a moment I just looked at his empty chair, dumbfounded. For once, his deductions, however sound they appeared, were totally erroneous – more so than even during the Norbury affair! What amazed me now was how many emotions had penetrated his voice. At the start, he'd been angry, which was normal and acceptable – for _his_ standards. It had soon turned to a weary sort of resignation, almost... defeat. I'd never heard anything so very wrong. And at the end, was there a hint of – pleading?

I couldn't stall any longer. I needed to clear things up between us. His emotions were all the evidence I could ever wish for. Holmes was sincere. I'd been a blasted fool to doubt him. I had never questioned his decisions, his logical words of deductions in the past. And the one time I decided to go with my own judgement, my own insecurities…I had just done what I swore to never do. I had hurt him – immensely. I needed to put things right. I could only pray I had not wounded him permanently.

Holmes had holed himself up in his room with locked door. I called him a few times, but received no answer. Given what he thought, it was little surprise he didn't want to face me. _What could I do?_ Suddenly, I realized. Norbury!I was unsure Holmes would hear me out _now_, though, so I wrote the codeword on a piece of paper and let it slip under the door. Sooner or later he would notice it. Curiosity had always been the one thing Holmes could not resist, after all.

It took him two and half hours to creep out of the room. His ignoring the note so long was a testament to how deeply I had unsettled him. "Watson?" he called, doubt in his voice. But at least it was his voice!

"Some things need an explanation," I announced.

"I believe everything is already evident," Holmes snapped rather too sharply.

"Holmes, I know – I understand, even. It's just...remember what I said to you? 'Be careful.' It's not that I _wanted_ you not to be serious. I…" I tried to justify myself but I never did end my argumentation as Holmes suddenly cut me off.

"You didn't trust me," Holmes deduced. The complete misery in his countenance was heart-rending.

"Not exactly," I hurried to amend, "it's not that I thought you'd turn me in to the authorities. I've known you to let quite a few culprits run if it suited you, after all. But if you'd inferred something and wanted confirmation of it, or if it_ was_ a trick, I couldn't fall for it. I couldn't because if I did, after it was over, I would have to leave you and you're too precious to me for such a thing to ever be conceivable."

"Precious?" he echoed. There was uncertainty in his voice, much like the one prompting my own prior fears.

"Of course, Holmes. I do love you, you know," I whispered, not quite ready to voice it aloud, but knowing it was indispensable to reassure him.

"But you said that my love for you was not credible, when you worried it was fake" my beloved objected, not daring to believe me. "Why? If you love me, our feelings are mutual, and mutual love isn't unthinkable. It's good...right?" he added.

A priest would have something to say about the last statement, but I wasn't a priest. "You're absolutely right!" I assented with a smile. "I did say you loving me of all people was an unbelievable thing to fake. It would be like you trying to convince me that Elizabeth I never married because she was madly in love with her chambermaid. I could believe it more if you said Mary Stuart," I elaborated, finally sharing my own insecurities.

"What would be implausible about that?" Holmes asked, puzzled. "It would give a logical explanation. And – the chambermaid should be Mrs. Hudson. If you told me a court lady, I'll accept it. Mary wouldn't be an admissible choice, though. If she loved her, Elizabeth would never have let her be killed."

I chuckled. Hopefully he wouldn't repeat such a 'logical explanation' anywhere in public.

"And this development between us is logic, too" he elaborated. "You've always been the only man in England I could live with, and for some blessed reason, the only man who could stand me. Even before this you were the one person I was honestly terrified would be driven away by my behaviour. Really, there could never be anyone else."

All remaining doubts – not about him but about me (how could this be happening because wouldn't Sherlock get _bored)_ melted away instantly. "Only you could manage to find logic in our love," I said.

"Is it objectionable?" he replied.

"Not at all," I assured him. Feeling decidedly venturous, I chose to ease his worried frown by kissing it away.

It wasn't such a bad choice either! And now I'm going to stop this account. It was meant to record how we found out that our feelings for each other were not one-sided and nothing else. It helps to remind me that this surely happened. It's not a dream or a delirious hallucination. Oh, sod it! If _it is_ delirium, please do not cure me of it!

P.S. Upon re-reading this narrative, I realize that the Mary Stuart comment means that my Watson sees the beauty in Foe Yay. (If you do not understand the term go to TVTropes and then check 'Ho Yay' for the page where they analyse Johnlock). He could even have written a couple Sherlock/Moriarty fanfics himself - who knows! ;-)

Cliff notes on the Elizabeth/Mary pairing: Elizabeth I (1533-1603), queen of England, never married (despite the need to produce an heir) and was called the Virgin Queen. Mary Stuart was Elizabeth's cousin and potential heir to the throne (given she was catholic and Elizabeth's father Henry VIII 'just' accomplished the schism from Rome I'll let you imagine the political and religious _mess_, rather than plotting). Mary became Queen of Scotland, was driven away from internal uprising and was for nineteen years 'guest' of Elizabeth. Mary ended up beheaded because she plotted against Elizabeth's life.


	2. Chapter 2

A.N. More romantic drivel. And OOC. And emotional H/C (it is post-Hiatus, after all). I'd apologize, but if you're here you've signed up for that. Still no smut, sorry. Betaed by the lovely Ennui Enigma, any lasting errors are mine.

Disclaimer: If I were Conan Doyle I'd be dead. So no, I don't own Sherlock Holmes. Or John Watson, MD.

The Empty House (deleted scene)

After capturing Moran, Holmes and I were successfully reinstated in 221B, if only for the night. I wasn't going to leave Holmes out of my sight for quite a while, thank you very much. I gave hesitant voice to a sudden realization.

"Old fellow, I've understood the reasoning behind your prolonged silence, really, but...why was I clearly the very last person informed of your coming back?"

I felt cold, and not from the draft of the broken window.

"It's not what you fear, Watson...quite the opposite, in fact" he answered, kindly. And yet with just the hint of a smile at my – apparent– misunderstanding of everything (as usual).

"You think you can still pierce my thoughts, Holmes?" I quipped. God, did it feel good to have him back to read my mind (sorry, I mean 'deduce' me).

"You're worried that my failure to approach you sooner – my being prompted to do so only after a casual meeting with you – stems from you being of insignificant value; from being not needed to the point of not even crossing my mind," he told me, with clinical precision.

I nodded tightly.

"As I said, this couldn't be further from the truth if you _tried_." His voice was now warm and heartening.

"It is correct that you were the last one I informed," he admitted "it is even true that I didn't mean to approach you quite yet. Not because you were unimportant; but because you were _capital_, Watson".

"What?" I inquired, still confused.

"Lestrade, and the rest of the Yard, I had to contact. I was sure that they would collaborate – they were stumped on the Adair case – and honestly nothing mattered past that. If they got outraged at my stunt and refused further cooperation, I could find other clients. Their loss. Mrs. Hudson...well, her help has proven useful, but if this had to be the last drop that would exhaust her endless patience towards me, I could set the trap elsewhere. I could find other lodgings, if not quite as comfortable." He shrugged his shoulders with a thoughtful frown.

I suppose that we're expected to understate things. We're British, after all. But if I couldn't imagine Holmes being at home any place other than Baker Street, I seriously doubted _he_ could either. It took time and effort to put the flat in precisely his favoured disarray. Not to mention I didn't believe another landlord or lady in London would be willing to endure Holmes for more than a week. But I'm getting sidetracked in this tale. I still wonder, sometimes, if what happened – especially what happened next – is not a dream. Perhaps I inadvertently died too and it is my own brand of paradise.

"But you, Watson...I could not endure your loss, even knowing how deeply I had wronged you. I meant to wrap up this case, put the whole Moriarty débâcle behind me...and _then _come to you. Focus on earning your forgiveness, however long it took. Still, when I met you, I couldn't help myself. I was irresistibly drawn like a needle to a magnet, and followed you. Even as convinced I was that you would do nothing but send me away at best...and rightly so, Watson! Even knowing my mind wasn't supposed to dwell on you, today. I acted impulsively. And you amazed me again," Holmes revealed with an almost reverent expression.

"Well, that last sentiment is _very_ reciprocated!" I joked. I swallowed hard at the lump of emotion that had settled in my throat.

It takes having lived and worked with the man for ten years prior to his...disappearance, having witnessed him forego sleep and food and generally being not-_human _during his work, to understand the magnitude of Holmes on a _case _getting sidetracked – simply by bumping into someone.

Knowing you are that _someone_ can be enough to drive you slightly crazy. Being a risk-taker and serial gambler by nature too can produce interesting results. Like stalking the two steps to your just-resurrected friend and kissing him square on the mouth before he can reply to your last statement.

Usually, I regularly lose every damn bet (there's a reason Holmes has a hold of my cheque book). Not this time.

He kissed me back. When we were forced to part, and he queried: "What?", apparently overwhelmed, I couldn't help myself. "Surprised twice in a day, Holmes?" I said. He nodded. "We're still not even," I informed him, laughter in my eyes.

Then, the flash in his eyes – just a flash – asked wordlessly if this was all a trick, a cruel move to level the playing field a little.

"I'm serious," I reassured him. He didn't look like he believed me completely. "I know you must find this strange, you have teased me enough over my partiality for women, but it's really simple. I got what I thought I wanted, then I lost you, then I lost her...and I was forced to see the difference. I realized I had always been – would always be – more yours than hers or any other lady's man. I've regretted my blindness for months. Now, I won't let us waste any more time. We have wasted enough already," I declared boldly.

"Mine," he echoed, clearly liking the taste of the word.

"Since forever, Holmes," I agreed with a smile.

"Sherlock," he corrected automatically.

"Sherlock," I repeated without protest, letting my feelings wrap around the name like a caress. "Love," I added. Someone had to say it, after all.

"Yes," he answered. It wasn't exactly 'I love you too'...but we'd work on that. For now, it was definitely acceptable. Time to move on to some more kissing.


End file.
